Bahar injas

That's the Farsi for "spring is here."

That's not to say it couldn't have the occasional relapse into zemestan, as we are on a mountain and all, but for most intents and purposes we're in a springy sort of season.

The snow has melted in all but the deepest and shadowiest crevices. Daylight comes through my bathroom window again by 6:30 in the morning, and it's still light after six at night. We've gotten up to or past fifty degrees most of this week, and everybody's still wearing their winter coats around out of habit.

My office plants--Bertie Woozle the schefflera, and my palm tree (nameless here forever more)--are leaning hopefully toward the window, through which cloud-filtered sunbeams no longer quite make it. We only get sun inside during the wintriest months, when it stays so low it can reach under the eaves. The palm tree and I both need to go sit in the sun for a while. We're getting pale.

But the worst of it is, with spring comes spring fever. Who wants to stay inside on a day like this? We've got Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald playing on the radio, which only makes things worse. They had a live jazz pianist at that little seafood place in Alexandria, the day Ben and Lisa and Jonathan and I went.

I think Princess Amy expressed it well, after Perry dropped her off at her parents' castle. She thought summer would never come. But in the meantime, she had an endless array of dress fittings and thank-you notes to write!

Lavendar's blue,
Rosemary's green,
When you are king,
I shall be queen...